


Healing Magic

by incenseandteacups



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I promise this isn't as nasty as all the tags imply, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Memory Loss, Non-Canonical past DAII, Other, Slave Fenris, mild violence, see?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-06-21 22:12:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15567441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incenseandteacups/pseuds/incenseandteacups
Summary: Two years ago, Anders was an apostate in Kirkwall, in love with Garrett Hawke. After the chantry explosion, Anders was exiled by his former love, and fell into despair. He found his way to the slums of Tevinter, where he now tries to survive, and repay the world for his crimes.For the past three years, Fenris has faithfully served his master, Danarius. After an experiment damages his mind, Fenris betrays his master, and barely escapes death. He is recaptured by slavers, and sold at a roadside auction.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! I hope y'all enjoy this reboot. As I said, chapters will be posted every other Saturday at 5 CT, so the next chapter will be out on 8/18. You're all amazing, and I hope you have a nice day!

It had been two years. 

Anders still hated the fucking Tevinter Imperium. 

 

Anders rinsed blood from his hands in a shallow basin of warm water, trying to ignore the thin film of sweat that clung to his body. He had neither time nor energy for a bath today. He lifted the basin, poured the soiled water into an empty chamber pot, and refilled it from a bucket of water he’d purified -a very handy spell, in the slums. As much as he would have liked to lay down, he began to wash his hands again, this time using a gritty bar of lye soap. This much he could do, and cleanliness was essential, even if it was a pain in the backside. 

Anders had lived in this shack for some time, and he still had nothing but the bare essentials. A smooth wooden cot, for patients to rest on, and a small straw-mattress lying on the ground in the corner. Then there were a number of basins like the one he was currently using, a chamber pot that he kept as clean as possible, and, of course, a stock of soaps and healing salves in a wooden crate against the back wall. He kept whatever lyrium potions he could find stuffed into the back-left corner of his straw mattress, under a torn seam. Right now, he only had one. The leg wound he’d just treated hadn’t been worth drinking it. 

However, he’d still gotten a few silvers out of it, which was more than Anders usually received for a healing. Most people here couldn’t pay much – or anything at all – and Anders didn’t ask them to. He dried his hands, pulling the coins out of his coat pocket. Sighing, he then fished a worn coin purse out of his boot, pouring the contents into his cupped hand and going through it. He had two sovereigns and, adding the coins he’d just received, forty silvers. He needed at least thirty silvers to buy his medical supplies, and of course, the sovereigns were strictly for emergencies. If he needed to make a quick getaway from the city, he’d want to have funds to do it with. That left roughly ten silvers, depending on if the price of elfroot had gone up, that he could spend on something else. 

Perfect. 

Anders dumped the coins back into his purse, standing and making sure there wasn’t an outrageous amount of blood on his clothes. He tucked the purse safely into the inside pocket of his coat, buttoning up so that pickpockets would have a hard time of sneaking it out without his notice. He then picked up his staff, the grip worn smooth from years of use. It was still beautiful - made of ironbark that had been intricately carved into a spiraling tip, with silver runes inlaid throughout, and an iron-shod base that could crack a skull in half. He never went anywhere without it. He slipped the staff onto his back, comforted by the weight, and pushed open the door. 

Anders didn’t exactly live in the nobles’ well-kept section of the city, and the first thing he saw was a beggar across the street, sleeping with his back against a rotten fence-post. Anders swallowed his pity and turned, walking towards the group of merchants that sold their wares in the nearby square. If he helped every beggar he saw, he wouldn’t be able to care for all the others who needed his help.

Buying supplies was a routine exchange; Anders had healed the merchant’s daughter when she broke her jaw, shortly after his arrival to Tevinter, and since then all of the man’s goods had been discounted. He had Anders’ usual bag of herbs and bandages ready by the time he arrived, placing it on the counter. “There you are, healer.” He said, smiling. “Thirty silver bits. Though, I have some royal elfroot, here…I’d be willing to offer you thirty-three for the whole lot.” 

Anders mulled the decision over. On one hand, seven silvers were much more limiting than ten. On the other, he didn’t get a chance at royal elfroot often, much less for three silvers. That would make a _very_ potent poultice. Sighing, he nodded. “That’s what I get for trying to treat myself.” He muttered, offering coin and thanks to the merchant as he took the proffered herbs. Checking the bag, he realized the royal elfroot was already inside – the merchant had counted on his buying it. Biting back a snide remark, he turned and headed past the merchants. He had an extra stop, today.

For the most part, Anders ate whatever he was able. Sometimes his patients would give him pieces of things they’d made – a few bits of dried meat, a crusty hunk of bread, a hard piece of cheese. He’d buy what he could with what money he had, but not every broken leg got him silvers, or even a bronze bit. Most of his patients simply had nothing to give, and he couldn’t begrudge them for that when they lived in this foul place. He was lucky enough to survive the passing days, even if his belly was empty more often than not.

That was why, on an occasion like this, Anders was already swallowing gathered saliva, the scent of warm bread and sweets reached him as soon as he came near the baker’s tent. It was the end of the day – there would almost certainly be something that had been marked down. Anders reached into his pocket, pulling out his coin purse. 

And then a barking yell froze him, cold trickling into his bones. He was turning to look before he could reason with himself not to, still clutching tight to his purse. Oh, Andraste curse him, why was he looking?

Across the way, with a cart and greasy clothes, stood a man baying like a hound. Anders couldn’t quite make out the words, but he knew the man’s purpose well enough. Sitting in the cart were three slender figures, bent over as though they were unconscious. Their hands were bound together, their shirtless bodies covered in scabbing cuts and yellowing bruises, and one had had the tips of his once-pointed ears cut off.

It was a slave auction.

Anders swallowed hard, trying to turn away, but he suddenly found his gaze drawn to the elf currently being displayed by the auctioneer. There was a grimy leather collar around his neck, the looped grip held by the auctioneer, and he had keeled over, resting on his knees and elbows, with his head touching the ground. He was almost too covered in muck and dirt to tell what he looked like, but bits of white hair were visible, and dark skin…marked with traces of silver. 

Anders’ heart felt as though it was beating slowly, all the way up in his throat, but he knew that couldn’t be right. He also couldn’t move, eyes locked on the elf as he struggled to raise himself up. The auctioneer hissed something at him, quietly, and offered a harsh kick to the elf’s ribs. As though that would help him stand, Anders thought numbly. Sure enough, the elf’s arms gave a violent tremble after the blow, and he collapsed. 

There were only two people paying the auction any attention – it wasn’t as though many of the people here could afford slaves, after all – and neither of them looked interested in buying the elf currently displayed. The auctioneer was getting frustrated. His mind somehow completely still, Anders wondered how many people had rejected the elven slave that day. 

Then, slowly, Anders found himself walking forward. When he grew near enough, he stretched out his hand, shoving his coin purse into the outraged auctioneer’s waving hand. Before the man could stammer out some furious argument, Anders told him, “It’s a little more than two sovereigns. More than you’ll get for him otherwise.” He wondered where he’d come up with that argument – he wasn’t exactly thinking clearly, right now. The man looked like he wanted to refuse, but he seemed to think better of it, looking down at the wretched slave he was trying to sell. 

The elf’s leg was bent at an unfortunate angle, his skin almost entirely covered with either muck or mottled bruises. He was breathing quickly and shallowly, whether from heat, exhaustion, or another injury, Anders didn’t know. “Fine.” The slaver spat. “Take him.” 

Anders crouched down, carefully running his hands under the elf’s arms and hefting him up. A choked noise of pain escaped the elven slave, his legs unable to support him, and with an unsteady wobble, he fell into Anders’ chest. His entire body shuddered horribly – Anders had seen pain like this before, plenty of times, but he still had to swallow the bile that rose in the back of his throat. Though it was risky with the slaver nearby, Anders sent a gentle wave of magic through the elf. He went limp in Anders’ arms, though his breathing was still quick. 

Fenris could sleep, for now. No doubt he’d already been through enough. 

 

**

 

Anders had a harder time than he’d expected, getting Fenris back to his clinic. He’d managed to get the elf settled on his back, a hand under each thigh to heft him up, but Fenris was still made of lean muscle, and he was _heavy_. Still, Anders did his best, and finally he was able to lay Fenris down onto the wooden cot in his home, breathing hard from the effort. 

Still panting, he leaned his hands on the cot and set to work examining Fenris’s wounds, trying to absorb himself in his work and forget about the shock of meeting his least favorite companion…like this. He’d tried not to think about Fenris after the incident with Hawke, three years ago. At the time…Anders swallowed, the taste of bile still strong in his mouth, and continued working. 

He had to go out several times to refill his water, getting all the dried dirt and blood cleaned off. Fenris had multiple deep lacerations, so smooth-edged and perfect that Anders knew they were the result of blood magic; blades, no matter how sharp, couldn’t make a wound so neat. They would also be more difficult to heal – jagged tissue fused together better. At least they weren’t severely infected, despite having been coated in grit. Fenris still had his resilience. In all their years, Anders had only seen the elf succumb to infection once, and those were…extenuating circumstances. Fenris was also covered in purple bruises, likely made a day or two prior. He had three broken ribs, as well as what Anders suspected was a small puncture in his lung. It seemed to have closed up on its own, but he would be sure to keep an eye on it. Finally, his leg was the obvious injury, dislocated at the knee and twisted so severely that the muscle had torn. Anders had no clue what could have caused it, but he’d seen magic do some horrific things.

Before it was all done, Anders had to break out his last remaining lyrium potion, relieved by the boost of strength it gave him. Even with that, he was still almost entirely drained of mana by the time he’d finished healing Fenris. For a moment, his eyes had trailed along one of the tattoos on Fenris’s left arm, wondering if any mana could be gained from it. He quickly forced himself to drop that line of thinking – Fenris would have chopped his head off his shoulders for even considering something like that, back in the day. 

Shoulders slumping, Anders let out a slow breath, placing a hand to his forehead. His skin was clammy and cold, and he was sure he looked pale as a ghost. He started to stand…only to flinch back. Fenris’s eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling. “Maker, Fenris!” He exclaimed, leaping back. Something about Fenris’s expression felt… _off,_ and his skin prickled. Had he seen Anders looking at his tattoos? “You couldn’t let me know you were awake?”

His uneasiness grew as Fenris took a deep, shuddering breath. Then, slowly, Fenris rose…and knelt, pressing his forehead to the floor. 

“I apologize, Master.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Fenris is returned to Danarius, Hawke is sent a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Thank you so much for the amazing reception the first chapter got! I will be otherwise engaged at this time tomorrow, so the second chapter is coming out a day early. ;) Next chapter will be on 9/1, as planned! Thank y'all for reading, and have a great day! 
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains implied non-con and violence.

_**Hawke,** _

_**Many thanks for the kind return of my property. Fenris is his usual compliant self now that his memories have been once again removed. Not a simple process, but considering the investment, I consider it very much worthwhile.** _

_**As promised, I'm enclosing a little gift from the storehouses of the Arcanist Hall in Minrathous. Should you ever find yourself in the Imperium, do feel free to visit. I'll provide a tour of the Hall myself, if you like.** _

_**Danarius** _

 

**

 

The wooden floor of the cart pressed against Fenris’s back, the faint sting of splintered wood joining the rest of the agony that wracked through him. He couldn’t take a full breath, a sharp pain like a spear through his side stopping him every time he tried. The sun beat down on him and the other slaves in the cart, as though it was further punishment for their crimes – disobedience, ineptitude, worthlessness. That was what they were: worthless. The knowledge of this was like the taste of bile in Fenris’s mouth. Even now, barely conscious as he was, the memory of what he’d done ran through his mind, again and again. How could he have changed it, he wondered? How could he have prevented what had happened to him, stopped the atrocity that he’d committed? 

 

**

 

Fenris bit down on the smooth piece of leather that had been thrust into his mouth, back arching with a muffled scream. He tried to keep quiet, to do as his master asked of him, but it was difficult. Thankfully, the restraints did what he could not, strapping him so securely to the wooden table that he could barely move. They were enchanted, his master had told him, smiling wisely – no normal leather straps could match Fenris’s strength. 

As always, Danarius knew best. 

Lirena, a magister and companion of Fenris’s master, straightened, holding a thin dagger with a delicate, razor-like blade. She’d cut ever-so-carefully along one of the tattoos marking Fenris’s thigh, and after examining the sample of blood she’d collected, plugged the vial with a piece of cork. She set it in a small case, carefully packed alongside the other samples she’d collected from Fenris. “That should be enough.” She said, smiling at Danarius. “Thank you again – this is truly a unique subject.” 

Danarius gave a thin-lipped smile to Lirena in return. “No need to thank me.” He said. “I’m quite intrigued to see what you come up with.” Turning to an elven slave standing against the wall, he said, “Call a healer. We don’t want these wounds to scar, do we?” Fenris took a few ragged breaths, repressing the urge to flinch at the sudden warmth of Danarius’ hand on his calf, directly overtop one of the wounds made by Lirena. Danarius squeezed gently, the sting of Fenris’s wound intensifying, then released his grip. 

Danarius and Lirena left the testing room, talking as they went. The doors closed, leaving Fenris in darkness and silence. When the healer arrived, he had regained himself, sitting up once the healer’s assistant had loosened his ties. The healing went as usual; silent, save for the occasional direction for Fenris to lift his arm, or turn to the side. When the healer was done, he offered Fenris a plain tunic and trousers, saying, “Lord Danarius has ordered you to visit the bathing rooms before you return to his quarters.” 

Fenris berated himself for the way his stomach dropped at that statement. He should be glad to have earned his master’s affections; it meant he had done well, today. 

 

**

 

The cart stopped again. It had done so several times today. Each time, Fenris had been hauled out, displayed along with the other slaves, and packed back in. Occasionally he’d watch another dazed slave be sold, stumbling off with their new master. Fervently, he prayed to the Maker that he could avoid the same fate. If he couldn’t serve Danarius faithfully, he couldn’t serve anyone – he didn’t deserve a new master. No, more than anything, Fenris felt he deserved death. 

 

**

 

Yet again, Fenris sat up from the medical table in the testing room, though this time he had no physical wounds. Instead, his markings throbbed with an odd, burning pain, intensifying for just a moment with each beat of his heart. He felt dizzy, nauseous, and somehow…he couldn’t remember what kind of test Danarius had performed. Either way, his master looked quite pleased, so much so that he’d deigned to undo Fenris’s restraints himself, today. 

Fenris bowed his head obediently as Danarius fitted a black leather collar around his neck, the one he usually wore when in the company of his master and others. “Today, Fenris,” Danarius began, a satisfied, almost musical lilt to his voice, “I will have a meal with myself and a few other associates. You will serve us.” 

Fenris stepped down from the table, bowing lowly. “Yes, Master.” 

That night, he was dressed in a simple black tunic and leggings, the lyrium tattoos along his upper arms exposed and emphasized by the plain design of his clothes. His master also gave him a pair of delicate gauntlets with claw-like tips, apparently of the opinion that it would improve Fenris’s appearance. Danarius wanted him to be intimidating. 

Later, as he poured a measure of blood-red wine into a magister’s goblet, he thought he was doing well, in that regard. The magister’s eyes flickered from Fenris’s claw-tipped gauntlets to the markings on his wrist and, finally, up to Fenris’s tattooed face, tense in his seat. Lirena sat across from the magister being served, and she beckoned casually for Fenris to fill her goblet as well. She was not afraid of him – naturally – and she reveled in being above the other guests. Fenris had spent long enough studying the expressions of magisters and their meanings to tell. 

He crossed the table, carefully pouring the wine. As her cup was filled, Lirena looked over to Danarius, smiling. “Absolutely delicious, Danarius. What wine is this? I must get a bottle for myself.” 

Danarius laughed, but Fenris recognized some small amount of tension within him. What was the cause? “It’s one of my favorites – Aggregio Pavali. I collect it from-“

The world went black, as though Fenris had blinked for longer than usual. The entire group of magisters stared at him. Lirena’s hand dripped crimson - spilled wine, Fenris realized with a jolt, not blood. The bottle he’d been carrying was on the ground, shattered into a dark stain and broken glass on the carpet. Fenris’s stomach lurched. _The bottle was on the ground._

Danarius broke the silence with a stiff laugh, saying, “Fenris, how clumsy of you.” _’How dare you be so disgraceful.’_ Fenris could already hear the words, accentuated by the metallic burning of a spell in his blood, that Danarius would say to him. “And you spilled wine on Lady Lirena! Servants, come clean this up. Fenris, go change and return to your chambers.” _’You humiliated me in front of my guests. You are a liability, not worth serving us.’_

Fenris bowed deeply, saying in as even a voice as he could muster, “Yes, Master. I apologize.” Straightening, he kept his eyes on the carpet as he left the room, heart thudding in his throat. He had never made such a grievous mistake before, and could only imagine the severity of his coming punishment.

Later, when he was summoned to his master’s room once more, he would find that his predictions had been correct. 

 

**

 

Fenris couldn’t bring himself to care as he heard one of the slavers grab the elf next to him, dragging him roughly out of the cart. “One at a time.” He heard another say. “This is our last stop for the day.” A grunt of acknowledgement, and then the bidding began. The auctioneer’s yells seemed distant and faded, even as Fenris himself was hauled down out of the cart, his feet hitting the ground with a shocking jolt of agony up his injured leg. He couldn’t avoid putting weight on it, one of the slavers pushing him forward to stand by the auctioneer. The man took hold of the lead that was still around his neck, the few humans that stood in front of them looking unimpressed with the slave being offered.

 

**

 

It was happening more. Twice this week, Fenris had found himself missing time – standing ten feet from where he’d been previously, or in one mortifying instant, staring his master directly in the face. Danarius hadn’t directly addressed his actions, but he was angry, uneasy. He was quicker to reprimand, to punish, and crueler in his experiments…crueler in his embrace. Fenris tried desperately to appease him, tried to show in his actions how much he loved his master, but it wasn’t working. 

One night, after a particularly violent few hours, Danarius had graciously allowed Fenris a moment to recover before he was to stand guard for the night. In the meantime, Danarius dressed, choosing an ornate robe that indicated he expected visitors. Every movement was sharp and angry, despite their time together. It disheartened Fenris to see that his master remained tense, despite his best efforts to make up for his mistakes. 

As he had expected, there soon came a knock at the door. Danarius immediately answered it, gesturing brusquely for Fenris to remain where he was. Fenris obeyed. However, he couldn’t avoid hearing the brief, hushed conversation that then took place.

First, Lady Lirena’s voice, low and dry. “You sent for me?” She was clearly aware of their activities.

Danarius was hushed as well, a now-familiar irritation in his words. “Yes. Thank you for arriving so quickly…I was not sure whether to expect you tonight.” He let out a low sigh, his voice moving farther away. “You have more knowledge of the medical sciences than I. Fenris is beginning to worry me. He hasn’t been the same since…” 

They left earshot, and Fenris could have wailed with desperation. There was so much he didn’t know, even before these odd lapses in memory had begun. He couldn’t remember anything farther back than when he’d been brought to his master, some three years ago. Danarius insisted that it had always been this way, and Fenris had simply lost his memory after a particularly bracing experiment. Still…Fenris had always found something odd about the way his master spoke of the past. It was never without a certain amount of annoyance, a tightening of his expression. 

What was it that he was missing? 

 

**

 

Fenris couldn’t stay standing, after all. He lasted less than a full minute on his feet, the injured leg finally giving out. He tried to retain some amount of dignity, keeping on his knees and hands, but even that was difficult. The auctioneer hissed at him to stand, and he tried, but his limbs refused to move. A sudden blow to his chest knocked the air out of him, and with a sucking gasp and a harsh shudder through his body, he lost control. Fenris collapsed, unable to muster the strength to do otherwise. 

 

**

 

Fenris never saw his master return to the chamber. 

Instead, he laid back in bed, trying to forget his fears and enjoy the press of cool silk against his skin, for just a moment. Then, he opened his eyes…and saw a poker from the fireplace in his hand. His master stood before him, clutching his shoulder, where a growing stain of crimson blossomed from a tear in his silken robes. 

Fenris dropped the poker, falling to his knees and trying to remember how to breathe. He could barely process what happened next, a flurry of magic coursing through him and burning like acid in his blood. Then, again, the world went black. 

He opened his eyes. His feet bare, he walked on hot, hard earth, his shirt torn and bloody. Pain shot through his leg with every step, twisted oddly at the knee. He didn’t know what he was doing, where he was going, but he tried to keep walking, tried to breathe despite the pressure in his chest. Something caught his foot, he didn’t know what, and he stumbled, fell. He couldn’t bring himself to get up. 

Some time passed – hours, or perhaps minutes, he couldn’t tell. The rumbling sound of an approaching cart roused him, though he could do little more than crack his eyes open to see it. A sharp whistle stopped the cart, and then a pair of feet slid down off its back, into his range of vision. “This one’s alive, barely!” A voice called, and another answered with something unintelligible. “I’ll bet we can get a couple gold pieces for you, knife-ear, what with those fancy tattoos.” The voice said, closer, and Fenris was dragged to his feet. 

 

**

 

Fenris wasn’t paying much attention to the auctioneer’s increasingly desperate attempts to sell him to the crowd, nor was he listening for any of the other humans. However, the next voice that spoke was startlingly clear, and somehow…familiar.

“It’s a little more than two sovereigns. More than you’ll get for him otherwise.” The man spoke quickly and confidently, a soothing rhythm to his voice.

Footsteps sounded near Fenris’s head, and he heard the auctioneer snap a reply from between gritted teeth. “Fine. Take him.”

Hands slid beneath Fenris’s arms, heaving him to his feet, and he couldn’t help the choked noise of pain that escaped him. He tried to keep himself upright, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate, and he fell forward into the human’s chest, his face meeting a soft coat of feathers. They smelled of sweet herbs, smoke…and lyrium. A dry, cool hand pressed to the back of Fenris’s neck, causing him to tense…until he felt the unmistakable flow of magic rushing through him. He fell almost immediately into a deep, painless sleep, surrounded by the scent of fresh herbs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, I am so, so sorry! I just moved into my new college dorm and completely lost track of the date. As I did just move, I am afraid this update will be a goofy intermission short, rather than a full-fledged chapter, but I hope everyone enjoys it all the same! 
> 
> I would also like to mention that, while these shorts won't be happening TOO often, if anyone has something they would like to see in one, feel free to share! Provided it fits in with the storyline I have planned, I would love to include it as a form of reparations for putting a delay on the next chapter ^^ Regardless, I hope you all like this, and have a wonderful day! :D 
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNING: NSFW (Mildly explicit)**

Fenris’s breathing came quickly, his heart hammering in his chest. Long, cool fingers trailed up the side of his neck, nails scraping ever-so-gently across his skin. He bit his lip, swallowed hard. Teeth pressed into his newly exposed collarbone, another smooth and dexterous hand dropping his tunic to the ground. Stubble scratched against him, but the feeling wasn’t uncomfortable. On the contrary, it sent a new wave of shivers through him, starting from the base of his skull and traveling down his spine. 

Anders murmured plaintive words against his throat, rocking his hips against Fenris’s. Through half-lidded eyes, Fenris watched the mage, nearly doubled over to be able to straddle Fenris and suck a hickey into his neck at the same time. A noise caught in Fenris’ throat, the ticklish vibration of Anders’ moaning and the rough pressure of their grinding indescribably pleasurable. 

He had never done anything like this. Danarius had…no, he didn’t want to think of Danarius right now. He didn’t want to remember the fear of those moments, the lack of intimacy – intimacy that he was being provided in spades right now. Instead, he clutched the back of Anders’ feathered coat, pulling his hips closer with a tug that was harsher than he’d intended. 

Anders didn’t seem to mind, sitting upwards with something between a moan and a gasp. He was flushed, his hair loose from its ponytail and completely disheveled. Sitting on Fenris’s lap like this, he rather towered over him, but Fenris didn’t care in the slightest. He reached up, threaded his fingers through Anders’ hair, and urged him down for a kiss. He’d only discovered how wonderful kisses were earlier in the evening, and he was determined to enjoy them while he could. 

Anders obliged him, pressing his lips to Fenris’s. They were both breathing hard, and the kiss didn’t last long, the need for air forcing them to break apart. Panting, Fenris watched with sudden bewilderment as Anders slid off of his lap. He didn’t spend much time wondering why, fortunately, as Anders shed his coat and dropped to his knees. 

Fenris swallowed past the apprehensive lump in his throat. Anders slowly hooked his fingers over the edge of Fenris’s leggings, looking up with a catlike grin. “May I?” He asked, voice somehow rough and shudderingly smooth at the same time. Fenris tried to swallow again, but his mouth was too dry. 

He was too inexperienced. He didn’t want to be in a situation where a mage had any power over him. However…his fear of this situation was fighting against hot, urgent desire for more pleasure, more touch, more gentleness. And it was losing. Clearing his throat, Fenris gave a jerky nod. 

Without another word, Anders brought up both hands and pulled Fenris’s leggings down, just enough that his cock sprang loose. Fenris was already painfully hard from kissing and Anders blasted grinding against him, and he fisted his hands into his thighs, still torn between the instinct to run and the urge to pull Anders back onto his lap.

However, it seemed that neither were necessary. Without hesitation, Anders began work, cool hands tapping and sliding over Fenris’s hips, and Fenris stiffened even further, back straight and shoulders hunched. Anders worked his tongue against the head of Fenris’s cock, and Fenris’s head hit the back of the armchair he sat in, a moan escaping him against his will. 

He felt as though he could get drunk on this feeling, on the throbbing pleasure in the pit of his stomach, the hot, wet touches that overwhelmed him in the best way. He’d never had the luxury of being catered to before, in bed or anywhere else, and it felt terrifying and empowering all at once. 

His hand found Anders’ hair, gripping it tightly, though he didn’t try to control Anders’ movements. Anders moaned, and the sensation of vibrations around his cock had Fenris letting out a choked whine. “Mage…Anders.” He forced the words out, voice strained and crackling. “I am…I…” 

Anders’ response was a renewed energy in his work, and Fenris’s toes curled. He didn’t know what to do – he’d experienced this before, but never with another person, what was he supposed to-? 

Before he had a chance to find the answer, Fenris came with an almost angry moan of Anders’ name, panting helplessly at the feeling. Anders pulled back, and Fenris watched the slow bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“Well, at least I know that you call me ‘Mage’ intentionally.” Anders said, his voice suddenly…annoyed. Fenris looked at him with a confused scowl, trying to catch his breath. “You going to get up, now? You’ve been taking up room in my clinic for too long.” 

Fenris opened his eyes, a sudden rank odor making its way into his nose. 

Hard wood pressed against his back, and Anders was leaning over him, arms crossed. “For Andraste’s sake, finally. You dropped like a sack of flour in that fight, but you’re right as rain now, so get out of my clinic.” 

Fenris shook his head, sitting up from the cot in Anders’ Darktown clinic. He was fully dressed, though his head was throbbing. “Fight?” He asked roughly. He blinked several times, trying to rid himself of his disorientation.

Anders sighed. “Hawke dug up a desire demon. You don’t remember?” At Fenris’s lack of response, he continued. “I suppose it makes sense. She knocked you unconscious with a single spell – Andraste only knows what it was. I’ve checked you over, and you aren’t injured or cursed, though you _have_ been yelling my name and scaring my patients for the past half-hour.” 

Fenris’s face grew warm, realization flooding through him – along with a healthy amount of horrid embarrassment. Without another word, he stood, marching out of the clinic. 

Anders watched him go with a disbelieving scowl. “Not even a thank you?” He called, reaching back to smooth his hair back into its neat ponytail. The tie had been loosened during an intense healing session.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof! College is a lot of fun, but it does make writing more difficult! I hope you all enjoy this chapter - thank you so much for reading, and have a nice day! :D

The mage leapt away like he’d been burned, back pressing to the wall of the pathetic shack Fenris had awoken in. “ _Master?!_ ” He echoed, voice high and alarmed. Fenris’s heart was already beating in his throat, confusion and exhaustion combining to give him…an unusual lack of self-control. He couldn’t help his fearful glance upward to the mage’s face, wondering what he had done that had brought on such shock and dismay. The man’s hand was covering his mouth, eyes wide and brows furrowed. For a split second, their eyes met. 

Fenris then remembered himself, looking back down and praying he wouldn’t be punished for such an insolent act. Danarius would have…his chest ached at the thought of his former master. He needed to focus on the present. 

Fenris heard the mage take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and approach, the floorboards creaking. Fenris’s entire body was tense, tremors running through him every so often – a sickening display of weakness. He’d been trained to appear strong, fearless, but after the events of the past day, he simply couldn’t keep up the act. The mage knelt in front of him, that scent of herbs and smoke finding its way to Fenris. He prepared himself for the worst – after all, a poor mage was still a mage, and he no doubt had any number of cruel tricks up his sleeve. 

To Fenris’s horror, when cool fingers wrapped around his wrist, he flinched, jerking back against the grasp in a minute, but unmistakable motion. The touch immediately disappeared, but his insides curled with despair, realizing that he’d worsened his oncoming punishment. 

“Fenris.” How did the mage know his name? It didn’t make sense. “Please, Fenris, stand up.” Fenris swallowed past the hard lump in his throat. He couldn’t hear any anger in that soft tone, but living in servitude had taught him time and time again that mages were unpredictable. A kind word could easily be followed by an agonizing bolt of magic. 

Still, he couldn’t disobey a direct order. Slowly, Fenris pushed himself to his feet. He felt physically stronger, but he was still filled with an exhaustion beyond description, his heart heavy. At least his legs weren’t collapsing underneath him. He kept his eyes firmly on the ground, head bowed and fists clenched in anticipation of whatever was coming. 

The mage was silent for a few moments, but Fenris could feel his gaze like a brand. His breathing felt shaky, his hearing impeded by the rush of blood in his ears. Then, finally, the mage said, “Fenris…do you remember me?” 

Fenris swallowed, hoping that his response wouldn’t bring on greater anger. Carefully, he shook his head. “No, master, I do not.” 

The mage inhaled sharply. “Maker…Fenris, it’s me. Anders.” 

 

**

 

When Hawke had told Anders what happened to Fenris, Anders had laughed. _Laughed._ The memory still filled him with sickening loathing, for himself and for Hawke. Hawke…Anders had loved him, but since leaving Kirkwall, he’d come to understand what a cruel man Hawke had been. Charming, handsome, yes…but cruel. Thankfully, Justice hadn’t rubbed the fact that he’d been right all along in Anders’ face. 

In fact, Justice had been very quiet for the past two years. He spoke every now and again, but more often he said nothing, simply hovering in the back of Anders’ mind, radiating disapproval or satisfaction. Anders wondered if it wasn’t his way of recovering from what they had done. After all…it might have seemed so at the time, but their actions were hardly just. 

Regardless, here was another crime to add to the list. He hadn’t tried to save Fenris from Hawke or Danarius, and now, something horrible had been done to him. No doubt it was blood magic, but what spell exactly, Anders didn’t know. All he knew was that the meek, terrified elf who stood before him, head lowered and body quivering, was _not_ the Fenris he had been companions with all those years ago. That Fenris would have tried to rip out his esophagus by now. 

Fenris remained silent, so Anders tried to gather his scrambled thoughts. Even if this wasn’t the Fenris he’d known, he was still scared out of his wits and in need of help - Anders couldn’t just leave him to flounder. 

“Fenris, please, don’t call me master. I bought you, yes, but that was only so that I could help you. You are not my slave.” The fact that he had to say this was incredibly ridiculous. He almost wanted to laugh, but…experience with hysterical patients, and with hysteria himself, told him that he might not stop. That would hardly put Fenris’s nerves at ease. 

Fenris hesitated, before slowly speaking, voice quiet and submissive. Hearing Fenris speak in a slave’s voice made Anders feel like slugs were crawling up his back. “What…would you like me to call you?” Anders heard the moment of hesitation, as though Fenris had very nearly called him master anyway. 

“You can call me Anders. Look, I’m sure you’re…very confused. But right now, you just need some rest and food. Once you’ve had a little time to recover, I can explain everything. Alright?” Anders wondered just when that would be. The idea of having to recount his misdeeds was…unpleasant. 

Fenris slowly nodded, though he still looked utterly bewildered. “…yes, Anders.” 

 

**

 

Fenris wasn’t sure he’d ever been around a poorer mage…or a stranger one. Danarius had lived in incredible luxury. In his estate, Fenris was constantly surrounded by silken drapes, priceless artifacts, food and fine wines the likes of which commoners could only dream of. Danarius had devoted his life to the study of magic, and attaining his many desires through it. Fenris was part of that study – another priceless artifact for Danarius to enjoy. 

Anders lived in what was essentially a shack. The largest part was dedicated to patients, while Anders himself slept little and worked a great deal. Those patients would occasionally pay a few coppers, perhaps a few silvers. If they had no coin, they might pay with half a loaf of stale bread, or a hunk of hard cheese. Or, if they were truly desperate, they might not pay at all. Regardless, Anders treated them - used his magic for their benefit, and theirs alone. 

To Fenris, this was utterly bewildering. The goal of a mage was to gain power, influence, wealth – not to live in the slums and waste effort and supplies on wounded commoners, beggars and slaves. As the days passed, Fenris watched the goings on with silent confusion, performing whatever small task Anders had requested of him. 

And there was the most frustrating thing. Anders never gave Fenris orders – never. He never even had Fenris do any real work! Every order was veiled as a question, making Fenris have to worry he’d answer incorrectly, and whatever labors there were to be done, Anders did almost all of them. He gave Fenris tasks so simple that he might as well have done them himself – rolling bandages up, helping translate to a patient who didn’t speak Common, bringing a ladle of water to a patient’s child. Everything else, such as washing bloodied cloths, preparing salves, cleaning the water buckets and chamberpot, was done by Anders. When Anders went to the market to get his supplies, Fenris accompanied him. If Fenris tried to slow his pace to walk behind his master, as was proper, Anders would slow down as well, forcing Fenris to walk alongside him. 

He never acted as a guard, never supplied his master with mana, never shared his bed. In fact, Anders had assigned Fenris to the straw tick mattress, and slept instead on the wooden cot where he treated patients. He even gave Fenris the lion’s share of the food, for what purpose, Fenris didn’t know. It wasn’t as though he expended the calories to need extra food, and Anders was scrawny as it was, a tall frame with little flesh on it. In truth, Fenris didn’t know Anders’ purpose for having a slave at all. 

Of course, there was always that maddening repetition of Anders’ – that Fenris had known him once, years ago, as a free man. Part of him wanted to believe it, believe the idea that he could have been free, once. And the other warned him that this was clearly another mage’s trick, some kind of involved experiment. Nothing could be trusted, not when magic could alter one’s body and mind so thoroughly. So, he lived as carefully as he could, following Anders’ disguised orders perfectly and without hesitation. It was frightening, constantly stressful, but he was surviving, even if he had no idea what waited for him in the future. 

 

**

 

It had been two weeks since he came to live with the mage. Fenris laid on the straw mattress, staring at the ceiling – as always, it was nearly impossible to sleep. He closed his eyes tightly. He expected to open them and see the drapes of Danarius’s bed above him, feel silken sheets against his skin. Instead, he opened his eyes, saw and felt splintered wood and rough linen. He wasn’t sure what he’d prefer. 

Suddenly, Anders shot up from his cot, scrambling to his feet and heaving for breath. Sweat dripped down his face, despite the icy cold of Tevinter nights. Fenris, perhaps unwisely, sat up, about to take to his feet as well. Anders looked at Fenris, opening his mouth to speak. 

Fenris opened his eyes. 

Anders knelt on the bed, too close to him, his weight creating two dips in the straw mattress where his knees made contact. His long, cool hands gripped Fenris’s shoulders tightly, almost too tightly, and his eyes were wide, frantic. His hair was loose and wild around his face, stubble growing out too long, and he wore an utterly desperate expression that made Fenris’s stomach drop. 

Of course. Fenris should have known that this easy, painless work would only last so long. After all, Anders had paid coin for him, and regardless of what he’d said about Fenris being free, he was a mage. Mages were used to taking things – used to power. Even as he reasoned with himself, Fenris’s blood ran cold, fear and resignation trickling down his back. It felt as though he’d had ice water dumped over his head. For a short moment that felt like eons, they held each other’s gaze, pale green staring into reddish brown. 

It was only when Anders’ burning expression suddenly faltered that Fenris realized just what he was doing. Meeting the eyes of your master was a terrible offense, and something he had long ago trained himself not to do – nothing infuriated a magister more than a slave daring to act as their equal. Fenris was losing himself. He immediately dropped his eyes, his heart hammering and hands clenched into trembling fists.

However, the next thing he felt was the touch disappearing from his shoulders, a shift in the mattress as Anders moved back and away from him. He tried to swallow through the lump in his throat, refusing to look up and risk further offense. 

“Fenris…we need to talk.” Fenris took a slow breath. He could only imagine what they would be talking about. Anders…his new master hadn’t punished him yet. That was true enough. But Fenris had no doubt in his mind that it was _coming_ , that this was all orchestrated to break him, make him a better servant. 

Blissfully, Anders didn’t make Fenris reply before he continued speaking. “I need to tell you about Kirkwall.” For the thousandth time in the past two weeks, Fenris found himself completely bewildered. Kirkwall? He knew almost nothing about the city-state of Kirkwall, though he’d heard hushed conversations, some angry, others…pleased. What did it matter to a magic-addled slave and a starving healer in the slums? 

Anders was silent for a long moment, and Fenris finally flickered his gaze upwards, catching just a glimpse of the mournful expression the mage wore. Yet more dread curled in his stomach – what was about to happen? 

“I need to tell you what I’ve done.”


End file.
